Between You and I
by breatheinthemagic
Summary: "Between you and I / she could never compare to you." Multi containing at least one line from the song "Between You and I" by Every Avenue.
1. Would you believe me if I said?

**A/N: First Sherlock fanfic. Please read and review! Thank you! Also, I have no beta, so any mistakes are mine, and mine alone.**

* * *

_Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?_

He stood above a bleeding body, wondering if Moriarty was watching from the depths of hell.

Sebastian Moran.

The last and final assassin.

And by far the most dangerous one, because he was after the most important person in Sherlock's life.

John.

Instead of guilt filling him, not that he had expected any, there was only excitement.

Excitement of being alive again. Of shaving off his beard and letting his hair fall back into its natural dark curls.

Excitement to see John.

/ / /

He stood right outside of 221B, where he knocked on the door to find Mrs. Hudson who looked a little older, but she still smiled widely and pulled him into a tight hug.

"Oh dear, I knew you couldn't be dead," she cried, inviting him in for a cuppa.

After Mrs. Hudson had put the kettle on, they sat around her flat's table.

"So where have you been?"

Sherlock decided that there was no way he could tell her about the assassins that were hunting for her, Lestrade, and John, even if he'd killed hers first.

"Travelling lots," he decided. And at last, the burning question that he'd held in for the last year and a half burst out of his mouth. "Where's John?"

/ / /

_Mrs. Hudson_.

John answered his phone quickly, seeing as he'd asked her not to call unless it was an emergency.

(It wasn't that he had a problem with the woman, of course not. She was linked to Sherlock, and he couldn't bear to think of Sherlock or 221B or violins. Even though he did every day.)

"John, I have friend that needs to speak to you. Do you think you could meet him for tea at Speedy's in ten minutes?"

He smiled softly and nodded, even though he knew she wouldn't be able to see.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson. May I ask—"

She had hung up the phone, leaving John in the dark.

He looked at the clock quickly, 11:45, and padded into his bedroom to go get changed.

"John, where are you going?" a soft voice spoke from the kitchen as he threw his coat on.

"Just off to Speedy's, love. I'll be back soon," he replied, pressing a kiss to her head. "I love you, Mary."

And with that, he shut the door.

/ / /

There he was.

There was his best friend, standing in the doorway of Speedy's, looking around calmly.

He flattened down his blond hair, wondering how John would possibly react.

Like Mrs. Hudson, John had aged, but he also seemed younger in his mannerisms.

He was so calm, much calmer than he'd ever been.

Calm.

The look that Sherlock finally received when his eyes brush past him is anything but calm.

It's angry and happy and sad and relieved and terrified all at the same time.

He tried to contain his excitement that continued to bubble up inside of him.

And the bubbles fell flat when John shook his head and walked back out of the café.

/ / /

_He's alive._

/ / /

Sherlock stood up, pushing his table away from him, causing everyone to stare at him as he walked out.

John was crouching against the wall, his head in his hands.

"John?" he whispered.

When he gets no response, he leaned against the wall with his friend and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"John," he repeated, and finally, Sherlock assumes the position of folded hands under his chin, and John crouching there, his eyes gazing at nowhere in particular.

"You're dead," his friend finally breathes. "You're dead."

/ / /

It was almost scary how different he looked.

No.

It _was_ scary.

Where were his dark curls?

Where was his pale skin?

Where was his complete an utter Sherlock-ness?

Where was he?

His hair was blonder than John's, and his skin was tan, probably after spending months in different tropical places.

His hand felt heavy on John's shoulder, but neither pushed nor pulled.

/ / /

"Would you believe me if I said I was sorry?" Sherlock whispered after a few more seconds (which really felt like eternities) of silence.

John simply shook his head.

"You're unbelievable. Why didn't you tell me?"

He stood, leaving Sherlock in a strange position.

John being taller than him, and it was almost terrifying, except that John's eyes were softening ever so slowly.

Sherlock followed his lead, now the taller, and still feeling like the tiniest, even as John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock.

A sigh of relief left Sherlock's lips, and he felt his breathing return to normal.

"It was dangerous," he replied simply as John released him.

John smiled, shaking his head.

"Danger's never stopped me before, Sherlock. Really, I'd like to know."

"We should go back to the flat," Sherlock whispered, putting his hands in his pockets.

John looked down at his watch.

"How about you just come with me?"

/ / /

John still wasn't sure if this was a good idea.

After all, John had been absolutely in love with Sherlock, which he realized the second his body grew limp on the pavement, and now he was with Mary.

But here he was, standing on their flat's doorstep with Sherlock, fumbling for his keys.

Eventually, he pushed the door opened, and both of the men's noses filled with the aroma of brilliant exotic cooking that neither could identify.

It threw Sherlock off and immediately he felt uncomfortable.

"John, is that you? How was your walk?" Mary asked, appearing before them in an apron with a wooden spoon in hand and her blonde hair tied in a ponytail.

John smirked, pulling her into a quick kiss before introducing Sherlock.

/ / /

_The way she talks to John indicates a relationship. Not just flat mates._

This information alone is enough to give Sherlock's heart a tiny ache in the very back. Small enough to wave off, and yet big enough to remind him constantly of its presence.

_The kiss and the cooking, obviously a romantic relationship._

As the evidence pops up, Sherlock has to remind himself that John is not his—_was never his_. Sherlock Holmes is simply a man. And John Watson is a different man.

For a year and a half, they have lived separate lives, and still, the taller supposed that he was the only of the two to have feelings that grew stronger because of it.

_Ponytail. She's comfortable._

Of course she's comfortable. It's their flat.

_Their._

"Mary, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Mary."

_Left-handed, seeing as that's the one she sticks out to shake Sherlock's. Right hand has a silver bracelet, and then two that are homemade and made of string. Primary school teacher._

_Engaged. Ring on her fourth left hand finger._

"Pleasure to meet you, Mary."

"And you, Mr. Holmes. I'm glad to finally meet you," she replied as both pulled away respectively. "No offense, but I thought you were dead, Sherlock."

"I was."

He didn't say anything further, because she was walking into the kitchen to attend to whatever poultry was sitting on their kitchen counter.

"Well, what do you think? Nice, hm?"

_No bullets in the walls. No red and grey arm chairs facing each other. No skull. No violins playing. No books scattered everywhere. _

In anyone else's eyes, it was perfect, yes.

But to Sherlock Holmes, there was only one "nice" flat in all of London, and that's 221B Baker Street, but without John, it would not be "nice" or "good" or even "okay". It would just be, like all things pre-Watson, "boring".

"Yes," he lies, standing in the middle of the hallway, feeling like a complete intruder.

"Anyway, I had a question, and I know it's sudden, but Mary and I are getting married in five months," John began, handing Sherlock a cuppa.

"Oh, are you?" Sherlock said in false surprise and enthusiasm.

"Isn't it wonderful? But yes, we are. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd like to be my best man."


	2. The question wasn't meant to hurt

_The question wasn't meant to hurt, it was just my fear of losing you._

/ / /

It was absolutely ridiculous, John knew, to ask this question.

Sherlock Holmes was not one to attend weddings, let alone be part of a wedding party.

Really, though, John was just afraid that if Sherlock wasn't at the wedding, he would disappear forever and go find another jam-loving companion who watches crap telly while he tries to solve a case. And maybe he would anyway, but there was no problem in asking.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock said, looking up quickly.

"Would you be my best man at my wedding?"

/ / /

Sentiment was his least favorite thing in the world, and Sherlock was sure of it.

Sentiment is absolutely terrible, because it makes situations like this the hardest in the world.

Of _course_ John was going to ask him to be the best man. Of course, that would happen. And the worst part is, Sherlock wanted to say yes. He wanted to say yes because it would involve getting to spend time with John again. It meant getting to stand on the altar next to John.

Worst of all, it meant having to hand John a silver wedding band which would be placed on Mary's finger and being okay with it.

"No" would mean letting one of John's less intelligent friends take over the duty.

"Yes" would mean having his idiotically sentimental heart shatter the second he watched the rings slip onto John and Mary's fingers.

In the end he said no.

Actually, _he _said no, but his mouth spoke a very firm"Of course."

John hugged him tight, and for a moment, he wanted to believe they were hugging for other reasons. For another wedding where they would still stand next to each other on the altar and a ring would still be slipped onto John's finger, and a matching one on his.

"Did you hear that Mary? He said yes!"

Sherlock smiled sadly, "I should go now, though, I think. I'll call you when we have a case."

/ / /

No one ever in the world could read Sherlock Holmes. Not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not Mrs. Hudson.

Wait, but what was that in his gray eyes as he said his goodbyes?

An ignorant John would answer that question with: Sadness, Remorse, maybe even a little of Regret.

John Watson, his best friend, however, was aware that Sherlock Holmes would never have those kind of feelings.

Ever.

/ / /

_You never told me why you couldn't tell me about your death. –JW_

The text sprung up sometime during Sherlock's visit to his mind palace.

He shook his head, assuming his position of hands folded under his chin and his eyes clamped shut.

_Sherlock? –JW_

This time, Sherlock threw his phone across the room, and then fell back into his position.

"Sherlock!" came a yell from downstairs, Mrs. Hudson.

He would have continued to ignore it if a short blond man hadn't just burst into his apartment.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, still standing in the parlor of his Palace.

"I can't sleep. Tell me."

"What, like a story?" he chuckled, finally snapping out of his palace and sitting up.

"Sure, anything," John said, plopping himself down into the red armchair that still laid just across from Sherlock's.

Mrs. Hudson appeared, walking off into the kitchen.

"Tea, boys?"

John smiled at her offer.

"No, thank you."

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock spoke.

"You always said you hated this wallpaper," he said sadly. "I thought you would have changed it."

John chuckled.

"Yes, well. No one would do it, what with the bullet holes and such. Said they wouldn't be blamed for faulty construction if the walls came down, since their names would be on the record."

"Really? You'd think they'd do it anyway. For the publicity."

"Perhaps they should have."

"You could've done it anyway, you know."

The shorter man nodded.

"I know. But why should I cover up perfectly good bullet holes?"

The two finally broke the tension that had been hanging over them since Sherlock's introduction to Mary, bursting out in laughter.

"You don't like her?" John said finally, needing to get the question out of the way.

Sherlock pursed his lips slightly.

"I love her. She's smart, funny, and she's a brilliant cook if my nose still works correctly," he explained. "She's perfect for you."

He gladly left off the _And that's why I hate her_.

John smiled.

"Okay, good. I'm really looking forward to the wedding, you know. She's absolutely brilliant."

/ / /

John Watson did not expect Sherlock to say _that_ about Mary.

He had expected a stern repetition of Sherlock's initial observations and his deductions about her. Not anything nice, polite, or even human.

Yes, John would be honest and say that he missed Sherlock.

He missed him like hell, and to be honest, he spent a few days (weeks) locked in 221B, crying (like a widow).

Still, that would not change the fact that Sherlock was being nice about Mary. Not cynical or rude or even the slight bit annoyed. Not that John had expected Sherlock to come back, but in the dreams (and sometimes nightmares) that he'd had about their meeting, Sherlock had hated Mary. Hated Mary and somehow convinced John that she wasn't right for him. That Sherlock Holmes was the only person worthy of his love.

A part of him wished that he would.

/ / /

"It's getting late. Mary will worry," Sherlock said after John had told the stories of how he and Mary'd met (she frequented Speedy's and he'd just left 221B for the first time, just to get milk) and how their first date went (complete rubbish, by the way. John thought he'd reserved for dinner, called the restaurant an hour before their dinner was to start, found out that he hadn't, arranged a picnic, chose a location, informed her of the change of plans, and it started to rain. "We still had a bloody good time, though.") and how he'd proposed (it was completely out of character for John to arrange a secret meeting at a bloody warehouse. He'd gotten help from Mycroft).

"Oh, well. I suppose you're right. You'll have to tell me your stories sometime."

"Of course I will. Get going, now."

/ / /

John hadn't had a nightmare since he and Mary met.

Tonight, though. Tonight was different.

Of course he was still haunted by the images of Sherlock falling, falling, falling, and finally hitting against the pavement.

There was no easy way to remember it, because even in his memories, it was all just a shaky blur.

The last thing he remembered was the moment he placed his hand over Sherlock's wrist, feeling for the pulse. Feeling for the pulse, and the agony of realizing there was none to be found.

The dream was back.

For half a year, the dream had disappeared, but here it was again.

"Goodbye, John."

Falling, falling, falling. Eternally falling until he slams against the hard clouds.


End file.
